


The Shelter Of Your Wing, Pt I

by RainyDayDecaf



Series: Angels & Fallen Mob AU [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Mob, Angst, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Interrogation, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Threats of Violence, Truth Serum, Violence, Whump, a gun makes a brief appearance, implied suicidal ideation, please note that az and crow are nice to each other, the scary tags are for other characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23306635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyDayDecaf/pseuds/RainyDayDecaf
Summary: The mob has marked him for death, and Crowley ends up taking shelter with a bookseller he barely knows.  But the bookseller is not what he seems.  He might even be more dangerous than what Crowley is running from.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Angels & Fallen Mob AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1810570
Comments: 89
Kudos: 508





	The Shelter Of Your Wing, Pt I

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY SO, this has been languishing in my WIP folder since October. Credit for this AU goes to @10yrsyart on tumblr, I'm so sorry, I am WAY late to the party. I hope I did your book boys justice! (Or at least I hope I didn't make them too OOC...)

“ _Just like James Bond, just like James Bond_ ,” Crowley chanted under his breath. It didn’t help. The asphalt still looked very hard and unforgiving beneath him. He had never rolled out of the boot of a moving car before, never had reason to consider the logistics, and now he was finding himself woefully unprepared for the reality.

But there were worse ways to die. Much worse ways.

Sucking in a breath and squeezing his eyes shut, Crowley rolled. The first impact was the worst, he bounced and skidded a short distance before he started rolling, arms around his head, legs flopping all over the place. By the time he tumbled to a stop, sprawled out in the middle of the road and nursing a whole new set of scrapes and bruises, Ligur’s car had rounded the corner and driven out of sight.

“Ow ow ow ow,” Crowley groaned, curling in on himself. "Ow, fuck, that was _nothing_ like James Bond! They don’t pay those stunt doubles enough…”

"You, uh… you alright, mate?"

"Do I _bloody look_ alright?" Crowley snapped at the tipsy couple who had stopped to gawk from the pavement. No one else was in sight, the streets of Soho deserted at this late hour. Crowley could only imagine what he must look like to them—with his expensive clothes and zip tied wrists, the knife wound in his side gushing blood everywhere. Probably like a well-off kidnap victim who had only narrowly escaped the captors holding him for ransom.

Which was not far off the truth. Except for the ransom part. Hastur and Ligur couldn't be trusted with that sort of work. Beelzebub kept them for a different purpose. When the Fallen marked someone for death, when an example had to be made in the most gruesome manner possible, they were the ones to call. They reveled in it. Crowley had seen them at it once, sat in his car and watched from a distance while they did their _thing_. He still had nightmares about how the poor sod had screamed when Ligur poured petrol over his head and stepped back to let Hastur light him up.

 _Your turn now, you flash bastard_ , Hastur had promised with a leer as he'd slammed the boot shut with Crowley inside. _Your own fault for trying to run. We all know the rules. Once you've Fallen, you don't rise again._

Tires squealed in the distance. Crowley jumped and nearly tripped over his own feet in his mad scramble to stand. He had hoped for a little more time before those bastards noticed he was missing, but the universe had never been on his side in these things. 

“Look mate, do you need us to call the police or something?”

“ _Move!_ ” Crowley shouted and shoved past the couple. He ducked down a side street, fueled by terror and the overwhelming instinct to _runrunrun_. Though in his case it was more of a frantic limp. Getting out of the car had been one thing, but it was quickly becoming apparent that he wouldn’t be able to escape on foot. Hastur and Ligur would just keep chasing him in circles until he collapsed, and then Crowley would be right back where he didn't want to be, on his way to a fiery execution.

What he needed, right now, was a place to hide. Somewhere less obvious than a dumpster or a dead-end alley. Gasping in breaths that felt more like sobs, Crowley stumbled into an intersection and whirled around to scan the darkened buildings, desperate for a way out. He was in such a state, so caught up in visions of fire, that it took him a moment to recognize where he was. Not until he saw the name _A.Z. Fell & Co._ in shiny gold paint did the first spark of hope take hold. 

_"Can I help you?"_

_"Ah. No, not really. Just sort of, you know… browsing."_

_"Are you looking for anything in particular?"_

_"Erm… a place to sit? Can I do that here? I'll be honest, I'm not much for reading. Was more looking for somewhere to lurk. Hang. Wile. Whatever it is these days."_

_"You are aware that there are libraries for just that purpose? And coffee shops? I believe there is one such conglomerate just down the road that might suit your needs…”_

_"Yes, but then I wouldn't get to bask in the sunshine of your delightful company."_

_"…"_

_"That was a joke. A… a joke. Sorry. I’ll see myself out.”_

_"Oh, very well! I’ll let you ‘wile’ so long as you don’t distract me. I’m sorting new inventory, it’s a very in-depth process, I need to concentrate.”_

_“I won’t make a sound. Quiet as a mouse, promise. You won’t even notice I’m here.”_

Crowley fell to his knees at the door of the bookshop and scrabbled for the lockpick in his hair, shaking fingers nearly dropping it before he managed to work it into the old-fashioned keyhole. The shop was new, just opened a few months ago, but the building itself had been around for nearly two centuries. The place was a warren inside, filled with all manner of crawlspaces and hidden nooks. Might even be a basement or an attic… or fuck it, he was flexible, he could cram himself into a cabinet if it came to that.

“Come on, come _on_ ,” Crowley pleaded with the stubborn lock. “God, I know we’re on terrible terms right now, but if you could just give me this—”

A car came skidding around the corner. Crowley looked over his shoulder, screamed and smashed his elbow into the window. Broken bones were a small price to pay, he told himself with gritted teeth as he reached inside, unlocked the door and _finally_ pushed it open so he could flop down on the rug inside. A swift kick shut the door again behind him, not that it would do him any good. It would be a miracle if they hadn't seen him.

"Anthony?"

Crowley looked up, momentarily stunned by the sight of the man in a striped pink jumper emerging from the back room, the book in his hands half-raised like he meant to bring it down on the intruder's head. But he lowered it again, wide eyes sweeping over Crowley and taking in his bloodied, beaten state.

 _But it’s midnight, what’s he doing here?_ Crowley thought. He had met the bookshop owner, obviously. Aziraphale Z. Fell, though Crowley had yet to learn what the Z stood for. He was an odd duck, sweet as pie on the outside, but an absolute bastard once you really got to know him, and Crowley had found himself coming back again and again since that first day, drawn by their long and rambling conversations guaranteed to make him laugh until he couldn’t breathe. The two of them were about as friendly as it was possible to be for a shop owner and a customer who never bought anything.

He was well aware that none of this gave him license to drag the poor man into a life-or-death situation.

"Fuck," Crowley groaned. "I didn't think you'd be here. You weren't supposed to _be_ here…”

"What… what on _earth?_ " Aziraphale exclaimed. He set the book down and helped Crowley back to his feet. "Anthony, who's done this to you? What happened?"

Crowley shook his head and limped away, deeper into the shop. "Sorry. No time. Need to… hide. Hide now, explain later. Don't call the police."

"Lord, you're bleeding! Come here, let me get those off you. I have scissors in my desk.”

"I need to _hide!_ " Crowley insisted, but he couldn't muster the strength to resist when Aziraphale locked a hand around the zip tie and pulled him into a small office in the back. The space was lit by a single desk lamp, thankfully out of sight of the door, but Crowley still squirmed and itched to slink back into the shadows. "There's no time! I think they saw me come in here—"

"Who, dear boy?"

"Doesn't matter!"

Aziraphale neatly cut off the zip tie, but kept a firm hold on Crowley's wrist. "Excuse me! You broke into my shop, in the middle of the night, looking like you crawled out of the pits of Hell! I think I'm well within my rights to know what sort of mess you've brought to my doorstep!"

"The goddamned mob, that's what!" Crowley bellowed, trying and failing to wrench his arm away.

Aziraphale looked up, rapt eyes boring into him, and Crowley could have shaken him for looking only mildly surprised at this development. "Which mob?" he asked. Like it _mattered_. Like it made any difference _which_ _mob_ _in_ _particular_ was trying to off him.

_BANG! BANG! BANG!_

The door shuddered on its hinges, threatening to give way under the force of the knocker. Aziraphale tightened his grip on Crowley's arm and ushered him further back as more glass shattered. Then the front door creaked open, the little bell giving a cheerful, mocking ring. 

Crowley clapped a hand to his mouth, knees gone weak and wobbly. They were inside. They had him cornered, and his only protection was a well-meaning bookseller who was probably about to be murdered right along with him. Crowley imagined the shop going up in flames with both him and Aziraphale trapped inside, choking on smoke and petrol fumes. Would have made for a great movie scene, straight out of a spy drama, if only it didn't involve him actually dying in the process.

"Crooowleeeey!" Hastur sung out. "We know you're here! Wasn't very polite of you, bailing on us like that!"

"And we went to so much trouble," Ligur added with vicious glee. "Had something special all planned out. You like the stars, don't you? We were gonna take you to see them. A nice _remote_ location far outside the city…”

Crowley retched and struggled to control himself before he started hyperventilating. He thought he heard Aziraphale saying something, whispering in his ear, but he couldn't focus beyond his inner voice shrieking and babbling in panic.

"Crooowleeeey!"

"Under here,” Aziraphale said, one hand on his shoulder, and it didn't take much coaxing on his part for Crowley to drop to his knees and crawl under the desk. Aziraphale shut off the desk lamp, then knelt to look at him. "The back door is just down that hall. If it goes wrong, you can still run."

"If _what_ goes wrong?" Crowley mouthed, and he nearly had a stroke when Aziraphale stood back up and strode purposely in the direction of Hastur and Ligur. Crowley made a wild grab for his leg, but couldn't bring himself to crawl out into the open. "No, don't—!"

But he was gone, vanished around the corner into the main part of the shop. "Can I help you, gentlemen?" He sounded perfectly pleasant, though with a slight edge that hinted at irritation. "I'm afraid we're closed at this time of night. You'll have to come back tomorrow if you wish to make a purchase."

A thump, a gasp of pain. Crowley bit his knuckles, pressing back and curling up into the tiniest ball he could under the desk. 

"Where is he?" Hastur demanded. "We know he came in here. I suggest you start talking, old man."

"Old… _old man?_ " Aziraphale said in outrage. "I'm not even fifty! The _nerve_ of you…"

A second thump, followed by a groan, and the next words were croaked out. “I’m afraid… I can’t help you. I haven’t seen anyone tonight, except the two of you. Are you sure you’re in the right shop?”

“You know, I think he’s not scared enough,” Hastur suggested. There was a scuffle and a pained cry. Followed by another. And another. And _another_. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, shaking like a leaf, caught up suddenly in the memory of the last time he had come to the bookshop. It had only been four days ago…

_“Anthony, is that… what is that?”_

_“What’s it look like? ‘S cake. From that bakery down the street.”_

_“Yes, I can see that. Why have you brought a cake into my shop? You know I have rules about food and drink.”_

_“You let me bring in coffee all the time, though.”_

_“Well, that’s different. You bring me coffee, too.”_

_“Hah. Look, just take it. I got it for you.”_

_“For me?”_

_“Yep. Your birthday’s tomorrow, right? Saw it written on your desk calendar thingy…”_

_“And why were you snooping through my desk?”_

_“I wasn’t! Not the point. Anyway, I just figured I’d grab you a little something. My treat.”_

_“…oh. Oh my.”_

_“What? Do you not like chocolate? I can take it back, get something else…?”_

_“No, I do! I just, it’s… my dear boy, I didn’t know that you…”_

_“…look, it’s no big deal. Forget it. I didn’t mean to overstep.”_

_“No, please don’t say that! This is… it means so much to me that you went through the trouble. I can’t remember the last time anyone… what I mean to say is, thank you, Anthony.”_

_“Y… Yeah, sure. No problem.”_

_“Is it alright if I give you a hug?”_

_“Nrgk?!”_

_“No, yes, you’re right. Too soon. That’s alright, my dear. Maybe another time…”_

The next blow, when it came, sounded like a slap across the face, the painful _smack_ of flesh on flesh unmistakable.

"Right, let’s try this again," Ligur said. “You're new in the neighborhood, aren't you? It's your lucky day. We won't be killing you tonight. Just giving you a lesson on how things work."

"How very kind," Aziraphale said dryly. Another slap.

"Watch your mouth, old man," Hastur snarled. Really snarled. Crowley knew he would be right up in Aziraphale's face and putting his horrendous dental health on full display. "You're wasting your time trying to protect Crowley. He's only getting what's coming to him. Do you know how many people he's fucked over on the orders of our boss?”

Ligur chuckled. “Hundreds, by the last count. He's gotten pretty good at it. Cold-blooded snake, that’s what he is.”

"Yes, he does seem the type," Aziraphale said. It was impossible to tell if he was being sarcastic or not. 

Crowley eased himself out from under the desk. He gulped in a few breaths as quietly as he could, psyching himself up to sneak out the back door and make a run for it. The suicidal bookseller had all but given him permission, bought Crowley the time he needed while those two were distracted. He shouldn't waste it, every instinct cried out. Aziraphale might change his mind and rat him out any moment. It was what Crowley would do.

 _Just run!_ Crowley begged himself when he heard the bastards laughing, followed by what sounded like a body being thrown into a shelf and books tumbling to the floor. _Run away, now! For once in your life, don't be a sentimental idiot!_

"I came here for a snake," Hastur said, "but if you don't start talking, _now_ , I'm happy to add a dumpy little guardian angel to the list."

Trembling and hating himself a tiny bit more, Crowley took one tentative step. Then he froze when the unthinkable happened.

Aziraphale _laughed_.

"It’s funny you should call me that. _Guardian angel_ , I mean. I don't normally see that sort of poetic irony outside of books."

"What are you on about?"

"Perhaps," Aziraphale said softly, "you might like to see something. On the back of my neck, just under my collar?"

Silence. Then a sharp indrawn breath. "Shit," Ligur said. "Oh, you're _shitting_ me.”

"What?" Hastur demanded. "What's it mean?"

"We need to leave," Ligur said, and it was the weirdest thing to hear him sound so deadly serious. “Right now. Hastur, get your hands off him!"

" _Why?_ " Hastur whined. "What about Crowley? I want Crowley! Where the hell is he?”

"I think you should listen to your friend,” Aziraphale said, as calmly as if he was making book recommendations. “My associates will be most displeased if anything untoward happens to me. Believe me, I say this for your own good. You don’t want to get Gabriel upset with you.”

 _Gabriel_. Crowley racked that name around in his head, a thrill of unease making him shudder. Given the situation, there was only one Gabriel he could possibly be referring to. An American crime boss with an operation ten times the size of the Fallen who had recently been muscling in on their territory. A man with such mind-boggling influence that he could not only make you disappear, but make it seem as if you had never existed in the first place, and he did it all without ever getting his own hands dirty. If there was one rule of the underworld, it was that Gabriel Arch and his Angels were untouchable, to be avoided at all costs.

Crowley braced himself against the desk, vision swimming from blood loss and what he guessed were the beginnings of shock. Aziraphale. _His_ Aziraphale. His bookseller with the cocoa and the jumpers and the cheap paperbacks… and now he was out there intimidating mobsters and throwing around Gabriel's name like a talisman. Crowley wondered if he was dreaming. Maybe he had drunk himself into another midday stupor and was just being extra slow to sober up.

"…let's take him hostage," Hastur said, like that wasn't the most monumentally stupid idea he had ever voiced. "Trade one hostage for another, that's how we get our hands on Crowley. The boss will…"

"The boss'll wring your neck if you make this worse than it already is," Ligur said. "Come on. This is above our pay grade. Let Beelzebub figure it out."

Another brief silence, which was broken by Hastur having a shrieking fit and the cacophony of some piece of furniture being flipped over. Then the bell above the door tinkled, and there was only the sound of someone trying to catch their breath.

 _Now would be an excellent time to run away_ , Crowley's inner voice suggested while he swayed on shaky legs and tried to wrap his head around what had just happened. _Might be your last chance. Your bookseller has got plans for you. Why else would he stick his neck out? Do you think Gabriel burns people alive? Or does he go for the classic 'drown you in the bathtub and make it look like an accident'?_

“Anthony? Are you still here?"

Crowley jerked and looked around wildly for a weapon. The only thing close to hand were the scissors on the desk, sharp and gleaming. He brandished them in feeble defense.

Aziraphale paused in the doorway of the office, leaning hard on the frame. His clothes were rumpled and dirty from being roughed up, and he was pinching his nose shut with one hand to halt a steady dribble of blood. All in all, he still looked utterly harmless… but people in their line of work had a special talent for blending in. Beelzebub could make themself look like an upper-middle class mother of four when the occasion called for it.

"S…Stay back," Crowley warned. He slashed at the air, then realized how stupid that made him look and settled for aiming the sharp end at the bookseller. "Just stay away! I don't know what that was about, and I _really_ don't want to know."

"Anthony, I mean you no harm…”

Crowley huffed a disbelieving laugh. "Right. Right! You're only one of Gabriel's Angels. Running a bookshop in Soho, of all places. Just _happens_ to strike up a conversation with me the second I walk in. No, I'm sure that's a complete coincidence! What's that word they use when God really screws us over? Bloody _ineffable_ , that's what that is!"

"But it's not like that at all!" Aziraphale said. He made no move to come closer and held out his free hand in offering. "I haven't been spying on you or anything of the sort! If you'll let me explain…"

"I'm not worth anything to the Fallen!" Crowley blurted out. "You heard them, they want me dead! There's no point in interrogating me or… or holding me for ransom! You won't gain anything!"

"I'm not—"

"Just let me go! I was trying to get out! I don't want," Crowley waved the scissors around, " _any_ of this anymore. I was trying to run away. Except I _can't_ , I can't get away, was so stupid to think…"

"Anthony?"

"…I don't feel well," Crowley mumbled. He blinked down at himself stupidly. He was sure he had put on a blue shirt this morning, but just now it was looking very, very red. His entire left side had gone icy cold, the knife wound throbbing, and it was becoming harder to keep his grip on the scissors. Hard to remember why he was holding them in the first place.

Aziraphale moved closer, though his voice was very faint and faraway. "…losing blood… please… not safe…"

"Wh… What'd y'say?”

"It's _not safe_ ," Aziraphale emphasized. "I know you don't trust me right now, I understand your caution. But _please_ be reasonable! Those men might be waiting for you out there. If you leave the shop, I can't guarantee your safety."

Crowley shook his head weakly, blinking when his vision tunneled. "Hold on. Just hold… hold on. Everything’s gone wibbly. Wobbly. ‘S that a word?”

A pair of hands closed around his own, taking the scissors away. "Let me help you. You have nothing to fear from me, I swear it before God."

"I need to sit down," Crowley announced, reaching out to support himself on the desk. Except his hand never made contact, and the next thing he knew was the floor rushing up toward him, Aziraphale shouting in alarm, and then… well, everything got a bit fuzzy after that. He thought someone might be shaking him, but the sensation was so distant and dream-like that Crowley felt no need to respond. Better to float here in comforting numbness than to deal with whatever was going on in the real world.

 _Crooowleeeey_ …

Hastur's singsong voice taunted him, ringing in his ears, and he flinched away from the dark shape looming over him. This was it, he thought dully. He had always known the Fallen would be the end of him, in one way or another. Even if Crowley escaped and retired somewhere far away under a new name, it would only be a temporary reprieve. They would still find him ten or twenty years down the line and make him pay for daring to think he deserved a peaceful existence.

But he still wanted it anyway. Yearned for such corny, banal things as a cottage by the beach or a small flat in the city. Someplace to call his own that couldn't be taken away if he failed to follow his orders. Hack that phone network, make it go offline for a few days, and never mind all the people who would have their lives inconvenienced in the meantime. Get a job in that company, dig up dirt on the CEO, then use the blackmail to make them do the Fallen’s bidding, and never mind how many people ended up out of work and on the streets because of it.

Sometimes, on the really bad nights, Crowley wondered just how many people he had actually gotten killed by doing what he did. The worst had been the charity money. Just bluff his way past security, bungle some numbers in the computer, and _whoops_ , there goes all the money funneled to the mob, no longer going to help the sick and the starving. That little project had gotten him a promotion.

He hated it. More than that, he hated how _easy_ it was, how naturally these underhanded acts came to him, that little flash of pride whenever his schemes went off without a hitch. It was like he had been made for this life—a snake slithering in the garden convincing some poor innocent to do the real dirty work for him. When it came down to it, Crowley couldn’t really envision himself doing anything else.

And yet…

A hand brushed his forehead, sweeping away the sweat-drenched hair clinging to his skin. Crowley moaned and tried to pull away from the sensation, but an explosion of pain in his side convinced him that he was really better off staying where he was, laid out flat on his back on an unfamiliar bed.

"Just hold still."

Crowley squinted his eyes open and caught the bookseller in the middle of unbuttoning his bloodied shirt. "Oi,” he slurred, “buy me dinner first.”

Aziraphale chuckled. "Bear with me a moment, my dear. It's been some time since I've had to stitch up a wound like this. But I dare not call for a doctor right now, at least not before I've spoken with Gabriel and gotten this mess sorted out."

The reminder was like a gut punch. Crowley rolled his head the other way so he wouldn't have to look at Aziraphale, which left him glaring daggers at the wall. A few days ago, he might have said something petty about the peeling paint, just to tease the bookseller and watch him get all grumpy and pretend to be insulted. But… that had been a different Aziraphale. He didn’t know the one sitting beside him now. Had never known him in the first place, as it turned out.

Stupid. He had been so _stupid_. Had he really been taken in that easily? Just a few conversations and kind words, the bookseller always looking so pleased to see him when he walked in the door… in hindsight, Crowley couldn’t believe he had fallen for it. Aziraphale had known exactly what he was doing, the absolute bastard. Another few weeks and he might have let himself get drunk with this man, let the lines blur between _Crowley_ and _Anthony_ , and then who knows what his mouth might have let slip? Cryptic details about his coworkers and boss, work anecdotes that skirted a little too close to the truth. One thing after another until Aziraphale had all the information he could ever want on the Fallen, served up on a platter and wrapped in a neat little bow.

_Why does it bother you so much? You’ve done the same thing to plenty of other people. Spied on them, lied to them, betrayed them just when they'd started to trust you. Turnabout is fair play, right?_

“Brace yourself, this might sting.”

The first prick of the needle and thread made Crowley's vision swim. The second made him whimper and bite down on his wrist.

"Oh please, _don't_ do that," Aziraphale urged him and tugged his wrist out of his mouth. "I have enough to deal with already, there's so much blood—"

"Sorry'm making a mess," Crowley muttered nonsensically. The needle went in a third time, and his eyes rolled back. Aziraphale's voice seemed to echo from a thousand miles away.

"Good Lord, I don't care about the _mess!_ Anthony? Please look… me, I need… stay awake… _Anthony_ …"

* * *

He had a nightmare. But at least it was one of the recurring ones. Comforting in its familiarity, like watching the newest production of Hamlet and knowing exactly how it would end. He dreamed of crawling through a garden on his stomach, of weaving in and out among the foliage while giants chased him with flaming swords. The faster he tried to crawl, the heavier his body became until he was pinned in place and surrounded by a thousand condemning eyes. Then the clouds parted, and a column of white light erupted in front of him, blinding him, burning, _burning_ …

Crowley jerked and woke very suddenly to the rising sun beaming into his eyes and a musty blanket tucked securely around his body. It took him a solid minute of scanning around to realize he must be on the upper floor of the bookshop. His first assessment had been right—it was very cramped quarters up here. The bedroom hardly had any walking space for all the furniture crammed into it. In addition to the bed, there were no less than three wardrobes, two overstuffed bookshelves, and one a very sad-looking fern on the windowsill.

He found the door, not that it helped any since it was shut. Crowley wondered if it was locked, if he was imprisoned here, and that terrified him far more than waking up in a stranger's bedroom. Even more than the voice out in the hallway speaking in quiet, clipped tones.

"…realize that." A pause, then a muted scoff. "Yes well, believe me, I'm not thrilled with this either. After the way we parted, the last thing I wanted was to call you up and ask for a _favor_ …”

The bedside table held a thermos and a first aid kit, the latter splayed open. Crowley stretched out his hand for the kit, though he didn't have a lot of options for weapons. A pair of tweezers was the sharpest thing within reach. He picked them up and froze when he saw a shadow pass under the door. Aziraphale must be pacing just on the other side.

"No, you absolutely may not speak to him! The poor man has been through enough! And this is between the two of us, there's no need to—"

Another pause. Crowley palmed the tweezers and held his breath.

"Look—" Aziraphale paused again. And sighed. "I understand that much, yes. Thank you, Gabriel. Please let me know when you have an update."

He heard the click of a landline being set down. Crowley meant to keep feigning sleep, but wasn't quick enough to shut his eyes before the door swung open and Aziraphale wandered in, their eyes locking.

A moment passed. Crowley didn't blink. But Aziraphale did. He even smiled. It was so genuine, so full of relief, that Crowley had to remind himself not to fall for it twice in a row. And he definitely wasn't feeling a little twinge of concern at the massive bruise covering half the bookseller's face. Nope, not one bit.

Aziraphale's smile faded. "Goodness, you look like you're expecting to be stabbed again."

Crowley grimaced. "Seems like the day for it."

He stepped closer. Crowley tensed, shrinking back so quickly that his wound throbbed. Aziraphale hesitated, sort of awkwardly perching on the edge of the bed. He scanned over Crowley from head to toe.

“How are you feeling? Do you need anything?"

"Nrm," Crowley said. He cast around for something to ask for, something that would take Aziraphale out of the room and maybe give him a chance to sneak out. Not that he expected to run very fast in this condition, but one could dream. "Kinda thirsty, I guess?"

"Yes, of course," Aziraphale said and leaned over to pick up the thermos. The warm, herbal scent of tea filled the air when he unscrewed the lid. Crowley wondered if he had been keeping it there the whole time, ready for the moment he woke up. Then his paranoia ramped up at the thought that it might not _only_ be tea.

“There’s pain medication too, if you like.”

Crowley balked at the bottle of white pills Aziraphale offered and shook his head. The wound in his side throbbed angrily, but he ignored it.

“…I’ll just leave them here,” Aziraphale said and set the pills on the bedside table, then started packing up the rest of the first aid kit. Crowley stared at him, then caught himself and looked down at the thermos instead. He made a face and poked the tip of his tongue in the liquid. Plain tea, no sugar or anything. No poison either, as far as he could tell.

"Hm," Aziraphale hummed to himself, frowning. He scanned the bedside table and the floor, then leaned down to look under the bed. The angle let Crowley catch a glimpse of what had scared Ligur so badly. It looked like a simple tattoo on the back of his neck, peeking out from under his collar—a pair of outspread wings, bright white, with a fancy letter A superimposed on top. Innocuous and kind of appealing at first glance, much like the bookseller himself.

Aziraphale pulled himself back upright, suspicious stare landing firmly on Crowley. He took a hasty gulp of tea and tried not to squirm. The tweezers pressed hard into his palm from how tightly he was gripping them.

"...if you would like me to provide you with a weapon," Aziraphale said softly, "you only need ask. There's no need to hoard my tweezers."

Crowley snorted. "And you'd hand one over just like that, would you? Just _here you go, sharp implement, don’t thank me?_ ”

"Yes." He gaped at Aziraphale, unnerved by the sadness he was met with. "I didn't offer you shelter or dress your wounds only to hurt you myself. I thought I'd made it clear before. I want to help you."

Crowley sputtered and ended up spilling some of the tea trying to sit up. " _Why?_ We barely know each other!”

“Oh, come now, that isn’t true at all,” Aziraphale said with a weak chuckle. “We’ve been well acquainted for several months now.”

"Not well acquainted enough!" Crowley said and jabbed an accusing finger in his face. "Who. The ever-loving fuck. _Are_ you? Why's an Angel working in Soho, of all places?"

"I rather liked the neighborhood. And I really should correct you on one assumption. I'm not an Angel."

Crowley coughed out a laugh. Oh, that was painful. He really shouldn't do that with a deep stab wound only barely being held together by amateur stitches.

"I'm not!" Aziraphale insisted. "I'm… well, the truth is…" He ducked his head. "Gabriel is my half-brother."

Crowley felt himself go very pale and break out in a cold sweat. "Your half-brother is Gabriel Arch? So it's like a, uh… family business sort of thing?"

Aziraphale laced his fingers together, pointedly not looking at Crowley. "You might say that, yes. And I did used to do some side work for them, when I was too young and foolish to know any better. But once Gabriel asked me to become more involved, I decided to put some distance between us. I'd hoped moving back to London and opening this shop might give me a chance at a more normal life. But, well…"

He sighed. "I suppose there's no escaping family in the end."

Crowley sunk back into the pillow and stewed on that awhile. “...your half-brother is American?"

That startled a laugh out of the bookseller. "Yes, I know. Dreadful, isn't it? I don't recommend it at all."

Crowley cracked a grin. The pain must be making him delirious. He was starting to think Aziraphale might be telling the truth and helping Crowley out of the goodness of his heart. Optimistic thought, but too dangerous to entertain for long. Crowley rubbed his face and did his best to keep his voice steady. "So what do I owe you?"

"Pardon me?"

"Look, I know how this works, alright?" Crowley said with bone-deep weariness. "Protection doesn't come free, and it doesn't come cheap. If I want the Fallen off my back, I need to make some kind of arrangement with the Angels. So what does your lot want from me? Money? Information?"

"Anthony," Aziraphale murmured. And Crowley couldn't stand that, how gently the bookseller said his name. If this were a soppy romance novel, that tone could have been classified as _achingly tender_.

"Crowley. Call me Crowley." He flicked his hand. "Anthony's just… it's not my name."

Aziraphale nodded. “You don't need to worry about the Angels. I'll handle Gabriel. If there's any price to pay, you can rest assured I will be the one to pay it.”

Crowley frowned. Opened his mouth a few times and let it snap shut again. “I… you don’t… _why?_ What’s in it for you?”

Aziraphale seemed at a loss now, staring at him. “Because… must I have an ulterior motive? I had thought… with how often you dropped into the shop, all those conversations we shared, I thought…”

Crowley blinked, possibly for the first time since he had woken up. Aziraphale seemed to take his silence for some kind of answer because he balked and stood up very quickly. “Ah. I see I was mistaken. Forgive my presumption.”

“Wait,” Crowley said slowly, the penny finally dropping.

“Please try to get some rest.” Aziraphale wrung his hands and retreated to the door without meeting his eyes. “Once you’re feeling better, I’ll speak with Gabriel about getting you discreetly out of London. Or out of the country, if that’s your preference. I understand the Fallen can be quite singular in not letting go of its members.”

“Aziraphale?”

“Just give a shout if you need anything,” Aziraphale said, already fleeing from the room. Crowley thought he heard another door shut and footsteps drifting downstairs. He wondered how he was supposed to _give_ _a_ _shout_ when they were separated by several layers of solid wood. 

Crowley let his head drop back to the pillow, frowning up at the ceiling. Friends. Had that been what Aziraphale was about to say? He considered them friends?

 _Were_ they friends?

Crowley didn’t know how to answer that. He didn’t have friends. At least not the kind that would have his back and look out for his well-being, no questions asked. In his experience, if someone went out of their way to be helpful, it was always with the implicit understanding that a favor was owed and would eventually be repaid. So Aziraphale must want something from him. Crowley couldn’t let himself believe otherwise. There was no way anyone would take a beating like that out of the _goodness of their heart_.

Crowley dragged the blanket over his head and huddled beneath it and tried not to dwell on the look Aziraphale had given him on his way out. Saddened and disillusioned and desperately lonely. It had been far too much like looking at his own reflection for comfort.

* * *

The bedroom ceiling was incredibly dull to look at.

The windows weren't much better. All Crowley could see from this angle were other buildings and a sliver of sky. There was no radio or television to distract him, and rummaging in the nightstand had only turned up a dog-eared copy of _Winnie the Pooh_. If only sleep were an option, Crowley would have gladly sunk into oblivion, but even after he gave in and took some of those white pills, it took him hours to find a position that didn't put pressure on his wound. 

At some point, he needed to relieve himself and used that as an excuse to hobble out of the bedroom and get the layout of the rest of the flat. (Such as it was, the place really was tiny.) The only real exit led straight down into the bookshop, but the bedroom did have a fire escape just outside the window. As long as Aziraphale didn’t plan on standing vigil by the bed, it wouldn’t take much effort to sneak out once night fell.

And he _would_ be sneaking out, make no mistake. Whatever Aziraphale was really after, Crowley didn’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out. He would make his move as soon as he had the chance and then…

…and then what? He had nowhere else to go. His escape plan was in shambles, his phone was in the river, and by now every reliable contact he had would want nothing to do with him. The odds of Crowley getting out of London without being caught and dragged before Beelzebub were very slim.

But staying meant entrusting his safety to an Angel. He knew better than to think _that_ would turn out well. Aziraphale might think they were friends, but for Crowley, that word was still a little too fraught, too loaded with implications and feelings that he was in no position to be feeling at the moment. No, much safer to assume the bookseller had ulterior motives. He would rather be wrong than dead.

It was late in the evening by the time Aziraphale showed up again. This time, Crowley was prepared when he heard the quiet footsteps followed by a gentle knock on the door.

"Anthon… er, Crowley?"

Crowley kept his eyes closed, curled up on his side and hugging a pillow to his stomach. He heard Aziraphale shuffle inside and set something on the bedside table, which piqued his curiosity enough to slit his eyes open.

The bookseller had brought him food. A bowl of soup and a toasted cheese sandwich, along with another thermos of tea. There was even a cloth napkin and a pair of chocolate peppermint candies. The snarky part of him wanted to ask if Aziraphale was running a bed and breakfast now instead of a bookshop.

He snapped his eyes closed again when Aziraphale turned to him. A hand brushed along his upper arm, gently prodding to get his attention. "Crowley? Are you awake?"

Crowley let a trickle of drool escape and aggressively nuzzled the pillow, as if he was dreaming and hadn't noticed the touch. Maybe Aziraphale would be too polite to wake him and go back downstairs.

"I'm just going to check your stitches."

 _Shit_ , Crowley thought as the blanket was drawn back. The cold air and the anxiety of being touched made him shudder and clench his teeth, heart pounding, panic simmering just under the surface. Thankfully, the examination didn't last long, Aziraphale only took a quick look before he tucked the blanket back in place.

"Thank goodness, the stitches are holding. And I think I've managed to keep it from getting infected. You don't look feverish…"

Two fingers touched his wrist where his traitorous pulse was galloping a mile a minute.

"Oh dear. Are you having a nightmare?"

He stubbornly clung to the charade. After a moment, he heard Aziraphale sigh above him. "Oh, for Heaven's sake, stop _hovering_. He's already terrified of you. Don't make it worse by being so…”

The rest was muffled by the louder noises of Aziraphale bustling over to the fern on the windowsill. Crowley opened his eyes again to watch him fuss over the thing, cradling the pot in one arm while he pruned away dead leaves, softly encouraging it to _buck up, there’s a dear._

It was… Crowley screwed up his face and hated that he found it ridiculously endearing. Hated that some part of him still _liked_ the bookseller because that just made everything more complicated. God, but he missed the way things had been before. Just the two of them drinking their coffee and engaging in pointless banter over secondhand books. Warm laughs and dry sarcasm and eyebrows that could express anything from disbelief to withering disdain with the subtlest of arches. Crowley had once offered to write an ode to those eyebrows, which had earned him a haughty sniff and a very gentle bop on the head.

_“You, my dear Anthony, may possibly be the most infuriating person I have ever met.”_

_“Aww, don’t say that! You adore me, I know you do.”_

_“You are a demon in the guise of a man, and I should never have granted you access to my bookshop. One should know better than to invite fey creatures across one’s threshold.”_

_“Is that any way to talk about your most loyal customer?”_

_“You say that, and yet you’ve never bought a single book in all the months you’ve been coming here.”_

_“I’m getting around to it! Soon as I've got some spare pocket change, I’ll buy something. Got my eye on a few right now, in fact.”_

_“Is that so?”_

_“It is so. Like maybe… those Oscar Wilde first editions you keep behind the register…?”_

_“Those are not for sale! You shouldn’t even be looking at them.”_

_“You do understand the concept of a shop, don’t you? All of this inventory isn’t just for decoration.”_

_“Those were a gift!"_

_“From who, Oscar Wilde?”_

_“Yes, as a matter of fact. Did I not mention? I am, in fact, six thousand years old, and all of my books are first editions.”_

_“Yeah? What was Shakespeare like, then?”_

_“Oh,_ very _bisexual. And a bit full of himself once he got popular with the masses.”_

_“Heh. Look at us. Just a couple of immortals wiling away the years here on Earth…”_

_“_ You _may be wiling. I prefer to think of it as overseeing.”_

Giving up the pretense of sleep, Crowley propped himself up on his elbow. “You know that pot is too small, right?”

Aziraphale gasped, both hands flying to his chest as the potted fern dropped to the floor and shattered. Crowley lurched upright, or tried to, but ended up hissing and hugging the pillow again when the movement pulled at his stitches. Meanwhile, Aziraphale couldn’t seem to decide whether to fret over him or the plant and ended up doing neither.

“Damn, I’m sorry—”

“Oh goodness, I didn’t mean to wake you—”

“—wasn't trying to scare you—”

“—just popping in to bring you dinner, I hadn’t wished to intrude—”

They both stopped when they realized they were apologizing over each other. Aziraphale cleared his throat and decisively knelt to gather up the shards of the pot.

“Sorry,” Crowley offered. He sunk back into the mattress and wished he could just keep sinking until he vanished.

“Don't worry about it, dear boy," Aziraphale said. He had gotten all the little pieces gathered up inside the largest, most intact piece, which he held in his arms as he stood. The plant and the pile of dirt stayed where they were, and Aziraphale pouted at the mess in a most put-upon manner. "No harm done. I think it was about to give up the ghost anyway."

"Yeah, cause the pot was too small, like I said. Just look at it, there's more roots than soil. Did you bother to replant it when you first brought it home?”

Aziraphale blinked at the broken pot and looked suddenly very sheepish. “Oh. Oh my. I recall now, the young lady at the shop mentioned something about repotting and fertilizing. I'd _meant_ to get around to it, but I've been so preoccupied. Have I accidentally killed it through neglect?"

"Alas, poor Yorick!" Crowley quoted with the appropriate amount of melodrama.

"I named it Stuart, actually."

"Oh, of _course_ you did…”

Aziraphale chuckled. "Well, I see you're feeling better. Are you in much pain?"

Crowley glanced down at his numerous bandages and bruises and affected an air of unconcern. "Think I'm okay for now.”

Aziraphale nodded. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but bit his lip and looked aside. Crowley fidgeted with his blankets as the silence stretched, awkward and tense, like two very distant cousins trying to connect at a family reunion. Aziraphale inched in the direction of the door, and Crowley didn't blame him, he really didn't, but he still cast around for _something_ , some conversation topic, to keep him from bolting again. What had they used to talk all those times he came into the shop? Damned if he could remember.

"I should… fetch a broom," Aziraphale said to the far wall over Crowley's head. "Clean up that mess. Yes, that's what I should do! Be back in just a tick—"

"Have you," Crowley said, fumbling over the words, "have you heard from… you know, your people? At all?"

"Nothing yet, I'm afraid," Aziraphale said, sighing. "Though I only called this morning. I expect Gabriel will need some time to sort everything out."

Right. Obviously, nothing would be cleared up in a single day. Crowley imagined he would be stuck in this cluttered bedroom for some time. Which was going to be absolutely tortuous if he and Aziraphale couldn't bloody _look_ at each other properly.

Aziraphale made another abortive motion for the door, but hesitated and turned back. "Are you sure you're feeling alright, Crowley?"

"Yeah, fine!" Crowley said. Too quickly, to judge by the bookseller’s frown. "Just, erm… you know. Wanted to apologize for earlier. Breaking your window and all that.”

"Oh, my dear, you don't need to apologize for that!" Aziraphale settled on the edge of the bed, smiling that oh-so-sunny smile that Crowley kept falling over himself to see again and again. "You were put in a terrible position with those vile men chasing you. I must say, I wasn’t expecting them to be _quite_ so violent.”

Crowley had to snort at that. “Still can't believe you just walked up to them. Were you expecting to shoo them off like a couple of stray cats? Just give them a gentle nudge out the door with your boot?”

“Well,” Aziraphale sniffed, “it all worked out in the end, didn’t it? And I… well, I'm really highly honored that you came to me for help."

Crowley made a noise in his throat and decided not to mention that he had only chosen the bookshop because it was dusty and dilapidated and far easier to break into than the porn shop next door. "Yeah. Well. That was before I knew about the whole Angel thing. Might as well have thrown myself into a pit of vipers, eh?"

It was _entirely_ the wrong thing to say, and Crowley knew it as soon as the joke left his mouth. Aziraphale's expression shuttered, like a bright star winking out and leaving behind a black hole of absolute nothingness.

"No wait, I didn't mean—"

"Of course you meant it," Aziraphale said flatly. He didn't sound angry, and somehow that was worse. He stiffly stood up and marched away from the bed, determinedly not looking back. "It's alright, Crowley. You have every right not to trust me. We are members of two very powerful criminal organizations who have a recent history of being at odds. Enemies in every sense of the word."

"No, but it's different with us!"

Aziraphale laughed bitterly. "Is it? Our respective superiors would be appalled if they could see the way we've been behaving for the past few months."

"It's not any of their business what we do!" Crowley retorted. "I don’t work for them anymore, who gives a damn what they think? And you said yourself, you were trying to live a more normal life…"

"Yes, and I was well on my way until you showed up last night!" Aziraphale burst out. He looked horrified in the next instant and covered his mouth. "I… oh God, please forgive me. I didn't mean that."

Now it was Crowley's turn to laugh, remorse bubbling thick in his throat like acid. "Yes, you did. And you’re right. You had a good thing going here, up until I mucked it up. Some friend, eh?”

“But you _are_ a good friend," Aziraphale said. Crowley wouldn’t look at him, but he felt the mattress dip and a warm hand alight on his wrist, the touch tentative. "Do you realize, before you walked into my shop, I had gone nearly a year without having a proper conversation with _anyone?_ Nothing more than pleasantries, I was always so afraid to let it go further. I could never know what might be used against me at some future date."

Oh, did he know that feeling. Crowley chewed on his lip, eyes darting all over to avoid looking at the bookseller. He thought he heard a bell ring in the shop downstairs and wondered a little wildly if Aziraphale was neglecting the customers for him.

"…but then there was you," Aziraphale murmured. "I really don't know why you kept coming back when I was so rude to you that first time. I suppose we were both looking for a distraction. But those conversations we had were so… and you remembered the things I liked, and you brought me coffee, and then a _cake_ on my birthday…"

Crowley tried for an indifferent shrug, but wasn't sure how well he succeeded. "Seemed like the thing to do…”

"Well. It meant something to me, all the same."

Crowley nodded. Turned his hand over to take Aziraphale's fingers and give them a squeeze. Still didn't trust himself to actually look at the bookseller, but he tried without words to convey _it meant something to me, too._ "Don't have a lot of people to talk to either," he mumbled. "Don't like most people I talk to. You were different. It was… I liked what we had."

"Had?"

Well, no getting around it. Crowley swallowed down his instinctive discomfort at doing something _nice_ and looked him in the eye. "Have," he corrected.

Aziraphale beamed. Crowley almost squinted, it was like looking into the sun. Oh God, oh no. That was too much, his heart was going to explode, he couldn’t handle this level of _sap_. And he couldn't for the life of him suppress a tiny, fleeting smile of his own. If any of the Fallen could see him now, his reputation would be in shambles.

He heard the bell ring again downstairs. "Shouldn't you check that?"

Aziraphale heaved a sigh. "I knew I should have closed the shop today. And I should really rethink that bell! Everyone's always ringing it when I'm busy in the back room and don’t want to be bothered…”

"Still haven’t learned how to run a shop, I see," Crowley teased as the bookseller left the room. He listened to Aziraphale's footsteps trudging down the stairs and reached for the cheese sandwich. It had gotten cold while they were talking, but he was accustomed to worse and scarfed it down with indifference.

How about that. He had a friend now. Crowley was still a little fuzzy on what exactly that meant. But he was definitely going to bring Aziraphale another cake at some point in the near future. Was that the sort of thing friends did? Damned if he knew.

He was only three bites into the sandwich when he heard footsteps coming back up the stairs. Rapid, heavy footsteps from multiple people.

"—my private space, you have no right to go up there!" Aziraphale shouted, sounding frantic. "Gabriel—!"

Crowley bolted. It took him precious seconds to figure out the latch on the window, and then to throw it open on rusty hinges that squealed in protest. One hand clutching his side protectively, Crowley crawled out the window and descended the fire escape as fast as humanly possible. He hit the ground running, dashed around the corner and into the sunlight—

—and someone seized him by the arm and yanked him into a chokehold. Crowley flailed in their grip, but the man was much bigger than him and frog marched him to the front door of the bookshop without breaking a sweat.

"I've got him, Gabriel! Down here!”

Crowley kicked ineffectually at his captor, which did nothing but make the arm around his neck tighten. He hung there uselessly until Aziraphale returned to the main floor along with another man. Very tall, dark hair, the kind of flashy, white-toothed smile that didn't seem possible outside of gum commercials. It was almost hilarious how much Gabriel Arch resembled a gameshow host. Crowley focused on that to distract himself from the dread of whatever was about to happen next.

Gabriel clapped his hands in approval. "Ah, Sandalphon, you always come through for me! Good job catching him."

"Let him go this instant!" Aziraphale cried. "He's injured!"

Sandalphon snorted. “Not badly enough to make a run for it," he said.

Gabriel strode closer, hands in his pockets, that easy grin still in place. He had to bend forward a little to look Crowley in the eye. "So. You must be my brother's new friend. Anthony, wasn't it?"

"Nope, never heard of him," Crowley wheezed. It was worth a shot.

Gabriel chuckled and looked from him to Aziraphale, who was watching the whole thing in silence. Visibly panicking, but making no move to intervene, and it was so blatantly clear that Gabriel was basking in his helplessness. Arsehole.

"Hey, you know what?" Gabriel said to his brother with sickening glee. "It's been awhile since we've had the chance to catch up, Zizi. How about the four of us all head upstairs and have lunch? I would just _love_ to get to know your friend."

For a moment, just a split second, Aziraphale looked apoplectic. Face red, fists clenched at his side, Crowley half expected him to fly into a rage and start throwing punches. But in the end, he only clenched his jaw and gave a defeated nod, meekly stepping aside to let them drag Crowley upstairs.

* * *

"So, great news, Anthony! I got you your old job back."

Crowley heard the words and vaguely understood what they meant. He ought to be paying more attention, given it was his life on the line right now. But he couldn’t bring himself to look directly at Gabriel, instead fixing his eyes on the plate in front of him. Aziraphale didn't have a proper dining room, they'd had to make do with a coffee table cluttered with so many books and half empty mugs there was almost no room for the food. Gabriel sat directly across from him in a worn armchair while Crowley had been given the couch all to himself. It would have been comfortable had Sandalphon not been hovering right behind him, one hand resting along the couch right next to Crowley's shoulder. Crowley was very familiar with this tactic. Any wrong move on his part, and Sandalphon would be on him in an instant, could probably break his neck quick as anything.

It was freaking him out just a bit that no one had actually hurt him yet. He wasn't used to bosses that _talked_ so much. The tension and anticipation just kept building and building with no relief, and Crowley didn’t know what to do with himself while he waited for someone to _get on with it_.

"I had a talk with Beelzebub on your behalf," Gabriel went on, "and as it turns out, your associates _may_ have jumped the gun on eliminating you. Your boss was very insistent that it was all a big misunderstanding. You should feel lucky. Beelzebub clearly values you as a member of the team!”

Crowley doubted that. Beelzebub was probably just pissed Hastur and Ligur had fucked up so badly, and now he was in the hands of the enemy instead of decomposing in a forest somewhere. All Beelzebub could do at this point was try to negotiate for Crowley's safe return. Preferably before he broke under torture and gave up the Fallen's secrets. And Crowley knew a _lot_ of secrets, it was the whole reason Beelzebub kept him around. They must be losing their damn mind right now, wondering how much he had already blabbed.

Gabriel leaned forward, the pleasant demeanor fading just a bit. "I want to make it clear. I didn't have to go this far for you. But it's not every day an opportunity like this falls into my lap. I've considered my options, and I think we can help each other."

"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?" Aziraphale demanded. After serving everyone lunch, he had refused the offered seat on the couch next to Crowley, instead standing off to the side and observing this whole thing with barely concealed ire, arms crossed.

"What I mean is,” Gabriel said, still addressing Crowley, “we both want the same thing. I want the Fallen dismantled from the ground up. I'm trying to expand my business, and they're making my life unnecessarily difficult. Until today, I had no solid plans on how to infiltrate their organization, but with _your_ help, Anthony, all that could change. If you were willing to work with me… well, there’s really no downside for you, is there?”

Crowley said nothing. He knew what Gabriel was getting at. What he wanted was a mole. Someone to go deep undercover and pass him critical information without any risk to his own people. The fact that Crowley had already proven himself a traitor meant Gabriel could be sure he wouldn't break cover, not when it was likely to get him killed. Beelzebub wouldn’t lift a finger to save him now.

He was also aware he wasn’t in any position to refuse this offer. Crowley numbly accepted that even as part of him wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all. He had been _so close_ to getting out…

"You can't send him back!" Aziraphale burst out. "Gabriel, those people are deranged! They chased him through the streets like an animal! I doubt they’ll let him back into the fold like it never happened!"

 _Don't, shut up, leave it_ , Crowley thought. He wished he could scream at the bookseller to play it cool, keep his mouth shut, stop being so _obviously protective_ of Crowley, because Gabriel was eating it all up like a second helping of dessert. (Or kale smoothie, whatever, Gabriel didn’t look like the sort who had ever eaten dessert in his life.)

"Oh, I'm sure Anthony can handle that," Gabriel said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "All he has to do is tell them he has an in with one of the Angels and could potentially learn some of my secrets. Beelzebub won't be able to resist. Of course, this means Crowley will need an Angel to meet with regularly who will serve as his cover and point of contact…"

"…me," Aziraphale whispered, comprehension dawning. He shook his head. "You know damn well this isn't the deal we made. I said I would work for you again in exchange for Crow... for Anthony’s safety. This is the opposite of safety!"

 _Wait, he did what now?_ Crowley thought, dazed at the revelation. Then he wondered why he was surprised. Aziraphale had already thrown himself in front of Hastur and Ligur for him, he was clearly the martyr-ish type.

Gabriel gave him a look like he couldn't believe Aziraphale wasn't seeing the obvious benefits here. "I _am_ thinking of his safety. In the long term. Sure, I could pack him on a plane right now and send him to Australia, but does Beelzebub strike you as the type to just let things go? Your friend will never be really safe until the Fallen have been neutralized. He knows that, don't you, Anthony?"

"I won't allow this," Aziraphale said firmly.

"It's not really your choice, Zizi."

"Stop calling me that! I haven't gone by that horrid nickname since we were children!"

"Oh, come on, don't be like that…"

"No, enough! I won't let you use him for your own gain!" Aziraphale took a step toward Gabriel, and Crowley heard Sandalphon shift behind him. "I've refused you before, do you think I'm afraid to do it again?"

“You know, you used to be a lot smarter than this," Gabriel mused. "Used to be I could count on you to trust my judgement, even if you didn't always agree with my methods. I still don't understand what happened to change that."

Aziraphale all but choked on his outrage. "What _happened?_ What happened was that you—"

“I’ll do it,” Crowley said. Well, blurted out, more like. It was where the conversation was leading anyway, he figured it was best to move things along. "I'll work for you, but only until the Fallen are taken care of. After that, I’m out.”

Gabriel smiled. "Completely understandable. And I promise I’ll do everything in my power to help you. You don't have to worry about a thing."

Crowley wavered. He knew that unique brand of fake-smile, the kind that said, _You won't have to worry about it because you'll be dead soon_. Yeah, Gabriel wasn't going to let him live after the job was done. Too much of a liability. But what other choice did Crowley have? Saying no would mean Gabriel walking out that door and taking with him what little protection Crowley had from the Fallen. Die now or die later, those were his choices.

"Don’t make him do this," Aziraphale said in a small voice, and Crowley could tell he was drawing the same conclusions, could see the trap closing in. “You don’t need him, you _don’t_ …”

“Yeah, he does, actually,” Crowley said, a little louder than necessary. He made an effort at casually lounging and winced when that pulled at his stitches. “You don’t even _know_ how lucky you are that it was me and not someone else. This sort of thing is old hat to me. Easiest job in the world. Could get it done in my sleep.”

He let his eyes flick up to Aziraphale briefly and hoped his meaning got across. _I know we had a moment back there, but for God’s sake, stop giving him ammunition. The more you try to save me, the deeper you’re digging our grave._

Aziraphale watched him for a long moment in a manner that very much said it was too late to act like he didn’t care.

 _I’ve got a plan_ , Crowley tried to convey with his eyebrows. _It’s called Plan Do As I’m Told And Wait For A Chance To Fucking Run. Don’t blow it for me._

Aziraphale took a deep breath, slowly recovering his composure. Though his hands were still white-knuckled at his sides. “Very well. I suppose I have no right to object.”

Gabriel grinned, looking back and forth between them. “Excellent! _Fantastic_. You know, this almost feels like fate, in a way, doesn’t it? Of course, what happened to Anthony was unfortunate, but I can’t deny it’s led to the best possible outcome.”

“It’s like I always say,” Sandalphon declared. “You can’t have an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”

No one had anything to say to that.

“So, that just leaves one more thing,” Gabriel said, then paused. “Ah, Aziraphale. You might want to leave the room for this.”

“What, _why?_ ” Aziraphale asked sharply. In the same moment, Crowley felt a hand clamp over his mouth and a _needle_ jabbing into his neck. He heard himself scream and heard Aziraphale shouting something, but then the world went a little wonky and he found himself abruptly lying flat on the couch and feeling quite relaxed about it. More relaxed than he had felt in years. _Blasé_ seemed like the appropriate word. He watched in vague interest as Sandalphon hauled a thrashing Aziraphale out of the room and wondered why the bookseller was so upset, why he kept shouting Crowley’s name. He didn’t like to see Aziraphale upset. No, everything was much better when he was happy. Crowley liked seeing him smile, it lit up the whole room when he smiled, like Crowley was the center of his universe…

 _Alright, that’s enough about my brother_ , Gabriel’s voice drifted by his ear. _I don’t care about that. Tell me about the Fallen, everything you know. Take your time._

And well… Crowley didn’t see any particular reason _not_ to answer.

So he started talking.

* * *

“Crowley? Oh, dear boy, please look at me. Are you alright?”

The really awful thing about truth serum, Crowley was learning, was the fact that it left the victim’s memories wholly intact. As he came back to himself, as reality seeped in, he found he could look back and relive the horror of the past few hours with perfect clarity. He could watch himself ramble on, not just about the Fallen but about his own role among them. Things about his past that he would never willingly tell another soul, things he was deeply ashamed of, things he hadn’t even known were in his head to begin with. Gabriel had asked for everything, and that was exactly what he had gotten. Director’s cut, unedited in high definition.

Funny. Crowley had always thought he would hold up well under interrogation. Talking was one of the few things he was good at. He could bluff, he could boast, he could lie for days. Words had always protected him when all else failed, and now even that had been taken away. He felt drained, wrung out, like the secrets had been physically squeezed from his flesh. His throat hurt.

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale was kneeling at his side now. Gabriel and Sandalphon had finally left some ten minutes ago. The flat was dark, but Aziraphale turned on a lamp and drew a blanket over his shivering form. Gentle fingers stroked through his hair, and Crowley had a sudden visceral urge to slap that hand away. His bodily autonomy had been violated enough for one day.

“My dear…”

“ _Don’t touch me_.”

Aziraphale snatched his hand back. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, voice thick with remorse. “I should never have called Gabriel.”

“Only just occurred to you, did it?” Crowley hissed. “Never crossed your mind that your brother’s a stark raving _lunatic_ , and you just handed me over to him on a silver platter?”

“I didn’t know he had any real interest in the Fallen! At worst, I thought he might ask you a few questions, but… oh, you must believe me, I never meant for this to happen! I only wanted to protect you, and I didn’t think I could without his help…”

“Lot of good that does me now!” Crowley said. “He’s going to make me go back! Somehow, I’ve got to look Beelzebub in the eye and convince them I’m worth keeping around, even after I tried to run!”

“I’m sure there’s a way…”

Crowley wrapped his arms around his head, knees drawn up close to his chest, almost dry heaving with the force of holding back his sobs. “And even if Beelzebub doesn’t kill me, I’m still stuck being Gabriel’s mole until he doesn’t need me anymore, and then I’m dead! Either way, I’m dead, and there’s nothing I can do about it! And it’s not like I can try running _now_. I mean…” He surged up with a flare of hope. “ _You_. You got out, didn’t you? How’d you convince Gabriel to let you leave?”

Aziraphale went very pale. He slowly sank down onto the other end of the couch, eyes fixated on the empty plates. He stayed silent for so long that Crowley thought he wouldn’t answer.

“I didn’t convince him of anything,” Aziraphale said at long last. “Just had enough one day, so I walked out. And I told him that I didn’t care what he did to me in retaliation.”

Crowley gaped, feeling at once very awed and very cold inside. “You said that _to his face?_ How are you still alive?”

Aziraphale drew a shuddering breath, hands twisting and fidgeting in his lap. “Gabriel has… very precise and twisted ideas about right and wrong. He has no qualms about murder in general, but killing his own family is something even he cannot condone. And it would displease our mother greatly.”

“Your mother?” Crowley croaked, still trying to wrap his head around _no qualms about murder in general_.

“She has end-stage Alzheimer's. I’m the only child she remembers, the only one she still asks for by name.” Aziraphale gulped, profile rigid. “If not for that, I’m sure Gabriel would have found a way to be rid of me long ago.”

Crowley did _not_ have the time or the mental energy to unpack all of that. Endless questions hovered on the tip of his tongue, clamoring to be asked. _Does your mother know what her sons get up to? Was she a part of it at one point? How is Gabriel such an arsehole while you’re the only Angel worthy of the name? What are you going to do when she’s gone and can’t protect you anymore?_

_(Why do you sound so resigned to your death at Gabriel’s hands? Why are you letting him use me to coerce you back into the fold? I’m not worth that, you should have let me die last night, that would’ve been fine, better that than the mess we’re in now, don’t let me be the reason you go back…)_

"…do you want to run away together?"

Aziraphale didn't answer at first. Then he raised his head up with an expression so baffled that Crowley almost laughed. "Run away… together?"

Crowley let his head fall back on the cushion. "Might just be the truth serum talking… but I think we could do it. We could set Gabriel and Beelzebub at each other's throats, then run away in the confusion. Just jump on a plane and go somewhere else. What do you fancy? Paris? Tokyo?"

Aziraphale looked on the verge of asking whether he had lost his mind. But he bit his lip and let his gaze drift off into the distance. "…I've never been to Rome," he confessed. "But I've always wanted to go."

"What's the first thing you would do once you got off the plane?"

"Oh, visit the restaurants!" Aziraphale said dreamily. "I would go to four different restaurants every single day and enjoy the local cuisine. Everything from five-star fine dining to the seediest hole-in-the-wall pubs I can find. You can learn so much about a culture from the food, you know."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. And you? What would you do?"

Crowley chuckled. "Oh, me? I'd be the most obnoxious tourist you could imagine. Go to all the sights at the busiest times, make weird faces in other people's photos, complain _very_ loudly about all the foreigners who don’t speak English. You'd be mortified, you'll spend the whole time telling everyone you don't even know me."

"No," Aziraphale said with quiet certainty. "I could never be ashamed of you, Crowley."

Crowley screwed up his face. "Stop that."

"Stop what? Telling you what a kind and wonderful person you are? How grateful I am to have met you, despite the circumstances?"

Blushing furiously, Crowley yanked the blanket over his head and heard Aziraphale laugh. "Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you? If anyone here is _kind_ and _wonderful_ , it's the guy who saved my life, even after I brought the mob to his door and threatened him with his own scissors."

“Oh, that reminds me! I wanted to give this to you, for protection—”

Crowley tugged the blanket back down and almost flung himself off the couch when he saw the gun in Aziraphale’s hand. “ _JESUS FUCKING—!_ ”

“No, no, no!” Aziraphale hastily set the gun down on the coffee table. “It’s for you… I mean, it’s _yours_. To protect yourself. If you want it, I mean. Oh dear, I’ve gone and frightened you again…”

“Wasn’t _frightened_ ,” Crowley lied. Clutching at his chest where his heart was still fluttering in useless panic, he made himself take a closer look. His only experience with guns was from the movies, and this one looked like the type he might see in an old Western. What was it called, a revolver? Whatever it was, it looked heavy. Crowley thought he might not actually be strong enough to aim it properly. 

He looked back up at Aziraphale. “Is that the real thing?”

“Very real,” Aziraphale said. He had also set a small box on the table, which Crowley had to assume held the bullets. “I can show you how to use it. Though I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“You’re just… _giving_ that to me? You, you can’t just…”

“I want you to be safe,” Aziraphale said without looking at him, “if all else fails. If I had any other ideas, I wouldn’t resort to this, but… _please_ , Crowley. I’ve seen what your people are like now. When you go back to them, I need to know you’ll at least have a _chance_ at defending yourself.”

“What about you?” Crowley asked, rather surprising himself with how much he cared about the answer. But the hazy image of Sandalphon manhandling Aziraphale and dragging him out of the room wouldn’t leave him be. He was almost positive it was going to fuel his next batch of nightmares for weeks to come.

Aziraphale gave him a weak smile that was nowhere near reassuring. “Oh, I’ll… I’ll look after myself. Been doing it for a long time.”

“No, you probably need that more than I do," Crowley insisted. "I don’t even know how to use it. I’m like as not to shoot myself by accident."

“I’ve already said I’ll teach you…”

“Look, I can handle my people—”

“Yes, I’m sure you can, but it would make me feel better…”

“And how am _I_ supposed to feel knowing you’ve got nothing to defend yourself?” Crowley demanded. “If my lot figure out I'm working for Gabriel, it won't just be me they come after! I don't want anything to happen to you!"

Aziraphale stared at him, mouth hanging open slightly. Just like that day when Crowley had walked in with a cake and the bookseller hadn't known what to do with himself. Like the very concept of someone _caring_ about him was completely foreign.

Crowley pushed himself up into more of a seated position, still keeping the blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders, its weight and warmth bringing some modicum of solace. "Look, we're in this together now. It's not the Angels against the Fallen anymore. It’s _us_ , you and me, against all of _them_. We're not going to survive this unless we put our heads together and find a way to tear them both _down_."

"…you were serious," Aziraphale said in a hushed voice. "Earlier. About running away together."

Crowley coughed, a little embarrassed now at his earlier declaration. "I mean… it wouldn't be so much running away as faking our deaths, taking new names, and fleeing for our lives. Not really as romantic as it sounds."

"I think it sounds lovely," Aziraphale said, sounding wistful. But he shook his head. "It would be a terrible risk. The Fallen are not the only ones who are terrifyingly skilled at tracking down those who try to escape. Gabriel has rather made an art of it.”

"Can't track us if he's dead," Crowley said bluntly.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale hissed and looked around as if he feared being overheard in his own home.

"What? Just making us aware of our options. And you can't tell me you've never thought about how _good_ it would feel to sink your fist into that smug git's face. Or how _convenient_ it would be if you just woke up one morning and found out he got killed in a freak accident. _Oh, so sorry Mr. Fell, it seems your brother was run over by a tour bus filled with Satanic nuns, poor bastard never saw it coming…_ "

Aziraphale tutted and stood up. "That's quite enough out of you," he scolded. "I'm going to get you some water, and then I think it's best if you go back to bed. That truth serum is making you silly."

" _You're_ silly," Crowley muttered rebelliously. He frowned as Aziraphale left the room and wondered why the hell he thought that would be a good comeback. He was normally much cleverer than that.

Clever enough to save them both from their respective organizations? Clever enough to make use of this tenuous arrangement and get his favorite bookseller out of harm's way? That remained to be seen. But Crowley found the wheels were already turning in his mind, little scraps of ideas struggling to come together into one brilliant plan that would neatly eliminate their problems in one fell swoop. Something that would let him and Aziraphale run off to Rome where they could stuff their faces and photobomb other people's pictures and just live like _normal people_ for once.

He would play Gabriel's game for now. He would go back to Beelzebub, all confidence and deceptive smiles, and weave a story about how he had planned the whole thing. The fleeing and getting captured, letting Hastur and Ligur chase him to the bookshop… all of it had _obviously_ been a ruse to earn Gabriel's trust and infiltrate the Angels. His most cunning ploy yet, if he did say so himself. He would laugh and brag about how he had this gullible bookseller eating out of his hand-- _a lie, if anything it was the other way around_ \--and now it was time for the Fallen to step back and let Crowley do what he did best. Slither in and make some trouble.

What was it that Hastur used to call him? Ah, yes. _Crawly_. The snake in the garden. He had earned that nickname a hundred times over in his years with the Fallen. What was one more time? If it helped Aziraphale (and himself, of course), it would be worth it in the end.

He heard the bookseller returning and made a split second decision to close his eyes and lean his head back on the cushion.

"I meant to ask if… Crowley?" A sigh and footsteps approaching. "Oh, my dear boy. You must be so tired."

Crowley kept very still, kept his breathing as slow and even as possible, feigning sleep for all he was worth. It was a challenge not to vibrate with anticipation as he sensed Aziraphale leaning over him and heard the _clink_ of a glass being set down.

If he was lucky… if he was _very_ lucky…

Aziraphale stroked his head. Just once, just briefly, fingertips lightly skimming through his hair and making his scalp tingle with their passage. Crowley almost bit through his tongue to suppress the pleased smile that wanted to erupt.

"…I really must stop doing that," Aziraphale muttered to himself. "Come now, he _explicitly_ told you not to touch him, and here you are taking advantage while the poor man is _sleeping_ … really have been on my own for too long, absolutely _no_ regard for boundaries… just because you think his hair is pretty, that does _not_ give you the right to…"

He kept scolding himself under his breath all the way up until he left the room. And it was a good thing too, because otherwise Crowley's blazing cheeks would have given him away in two seconds flat.

This whole _friendship_ thing was going to take some getting used to.


End file.
